My Friend Flicker
by girl in the glen
Summary: Sometimes the smallest flicker of hope sustains us in the darkest circumstances. Written for PicFic at Section VII on LJ.


"Put out the candle Napoleon. It's consuming our oxygen."

The room was a cruel accommodation for the two UNCLE agents. Lavishly furnished, it lacked only one thing: oxygen. That was running out, and in spite of the luxurious surroundings and one solitary candle, the aim of this peculiar prison cell was singularly fatal.

Napoleon looked around and took in everything, trying to find the one flaw in Duarte's plan. Illya was thinking only of the oxygen that ebbed with each breath, and every flicker of the precious little flame.

"There has to be something, Illya. Some crack, or crevice … something."

The Russian knew he shouldn't give in to the seemingly inevitable end that he faced. His partner was the optimist, the strategist who found inconceivable ways in which to defy fate. Illya's greatest strength was his abiding faith in Solo's optimism, and his willingness to go along with whatever seeming insanity his friend might suggest. What was a great plan, after all, without someone to believe in it?

"There is not even a door, Napoleon.' His eyes continued to scan the room, in spite of his objections. Kuryakin did not relish dying here, not like this.  
"Over here."

Napoleon brought the candle closer, edging up next to his partner. Illya was running his fingers along the inside edge of an ornate gold frame. The velvet filet was casting a shadow that seemed incongruous to the surface of the painting it adorned.

"It is behind here. Not much, but …"

Illya pushed on the canvas and the entire thing collapsed, and as it did so the flame of the candle flickered and then was nearly extinguished by a burst of air that blew in. Napoleon put his hand around it, protective against the breeze that threatened to put out the small flame.

"Feel that? Smell it, it's ocean air!" Napoleon gulped in the pungent odor of the sea, his brain racing with options as he tried to imagine just where they might be.

"Do we stay here and wait, or wade out to … wherever this leads?" Illya was peering through the opening he had created, listening to the sound of the water. It was hard to decipher just what was out there. "Napoleon, bring the candle over here and … "

As he did so, both men looked out past their window as the candle cast some light to the space beyond. The realization of where they were dawned on them simultaneously.

"We need to get out of here, and I suggest we start now."

Illya was climbing through the opening, ready to lead the way out to what was surely deep water. Napoleon took a deep breath, his abiding dislike of such places finding little comfort in the still flickering light of the candle.

"We must be just below the tide. When it begins to rise this room will flood and, we would drown. We must get out now."

Napoleon was nodding his head. Yes, of course they had to leave this way. That was the point of this charade, with the sumptuous room and the faulty barrier posing as a painting. Eventually the tide would have risen and come through it, seeping in at first and then flooding it as the canvas weakened and gave way. Duarte had planned it well, if only he hadn't left the candle. When would THRUSH learn that anything could be turned into an advantage?

_Enough of that_. Napoleon needed to move, and so he climbed out right behind his partner. The water was almost waist high at present, but judging by the movement, the tide was coming in and time was limited. Holding the candle above his head, Solo managed to keep the light flickering so that he and Illya could see what was ahead of them in the cave like surroundings.

They traveled at least one hundred yards to finally see daylight. Just as the light was appearing, a wave washed in and caught Napoleon off guard. He went under so suddenly that Illya almost missed where it happened. The blond dove into the foamy water and retrieved his friend, dragging him up sputtering and cursing to himself at being dragged under by the wave.

"Are you all right?" Illya was grinning in spite of his concern. Napoleon did not enjoy water on these terms, and unlike the Russian he lacked gills to help him endure the ocean.

"You really are part fish, aren't you." It wasn't a question, and Napoleon wondered why the smile remained on his partner's face.

"You're still holding the candle, Napoleon. I think it's done all it can for us, my friend. Here, this way."

And so Illya led the way, but not without noticing his sentimental friend tuck the remains of the little candle into his pocket.


End file.
